


Drunk With Fire

by meganlodon



Category: Hannibal (TV), Red Dragon (2002)
Genre: Eye Contact, Forced Eye Contact, Hannigraham - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, Intercrural Sex, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, hanniBANANAbal, mentions of Will/Alana, red dragon storyline-ish towards the end, second chapter is not in chronological order, will there be butt sex?, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganlodon/pseuds/meganlodon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham's mind is wracked with conflicting emotions that only Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the man who both augments and alleviates Will's sufferings, can change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aphelion

**Author's Note:**

> Aphelion - (n.) the point in the path of a celestial body (as a planet) that is farthest from the sun  
>  _this chapter mainly focuses on Will Graham's mind_

He is intoxicating, filling the air with his presence that filters through Will Graham’s skin—Dr. Hannibal Lecter taints the purity that has begun to dissipate after Will has killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs with shaking hands which leave Hobbs’ chest riddled with ten, imprecise bullets, and, with those very same fingers that pull the trigger, clamp down on Abigail Hobbs’ sliced windpipe as she gasps for air with blood pouring through the severed flesh. And he remembers Hannibal, his face calm and betraying no emotion, precisely covering the laceration with his hand, staunching the blood while Will stands back, crimson blood splattered across his visage as he hyperventilates, holding his gore-covered hands away from his body as if they are contaminated, staining his pale skin.

Will looks down at his tense hands, clutching each other so tightly that the skin surrounding the area where his fingers wrap around is white with the edges nearing a dark pink. The last time he had stared at the very same hands, the blood of two different people covered them.

He is aware of the well-dressed man, shoulders defined in a tailored suit that is inscrutable by Will who wonders if it is wool or silk but avoiding blended cashmere or synthetic materials, cheap and mediocre, that the man wouldn’t dare sully his impeccable appearance. 

Will’s eyes travel up the solid, uni-color navy suit that hides a platinum-colored vest underneath, up the crisp white shirt that is contrasted by a 100% imported silk tie that mimics the color of his suit jacket and tied in a symmetrical Windsor, pulled tight at his collared throat. A silver pocket square peeks out from the suit, pure silk rather than a satin and it stands out against the dark blue plane.

Will looks at his jaw, tracing the contours of his angled face, sharp cheekbones that slice through the air. Will pauses, unwilling to allow his own eyes to continue further up to look into Hannibal’s deep brown eyes that hide more than they reveal. Will’s eyes follow his cheekbones as Hannibal's head angles to the side.

The light refracts off Hannibal's smooth complexion, resembling burning fire so white that it is near-impossible to see as it flickers and wavers in the translucent light shining through it. He is an inferno, and Will can see the light that curls upwards from Hannibal's skin, and he closes his eyes, exhaling.

“You still cannot bear to look people in the eyes,” Hannibal observes, watching Will as he abruptly opens his own; he stares straight into Hannibal’s face yet does not make any proper eye contact.

“Quite nice of you to state the obvious,” Will responds, his eyes dropping back down to hands that haven’t moved, aside from the occasional twitch.

“It would be easier for people to trust you if you could somehow imitate consistent and proper eye contact instead of focusing on small details or flaws of the face,” Hannibal states.

Will’s head snaps up, looking at Hannibal in the face, yet still he avoids the analytical stare of the psychiatrist. He knows that Hannibal is aware of the fact that he is still incapable of looking at people in the eyes, and that Hannibal is aware that Will is not looking at his eyes.

“Jack wouldn’t rein you in like a dog breeder training his inbred pet to trot at the perfect distance on a leather lead with a tight collar to bite into his neck if he strays too far if you could,” Hannibal articulates, his noticeable European accent softening the consonants of his otherwise perfect diction.

“I am not a dog, or even a show dog,” Will spits through gritted teeth, retreating and flinching backwards from behind his plastic-frame glasses that have ellipse-shaped lenses, hiding behind them as he struggles to answer.

“I… I am not Jack’s dog.”

“Perhaps I used to strong of a comparison. You are a falcon, allowed to fly and escape for a short excursion, but always called back to the falconer. But you are not trained like a falcon to listen to its master. You choose to be the falcon wearing the leather hood over your eyes, domesticated when you should be free, and blinding yourself to the dangers that Jack so thoroughly convinces himself that are not there,” Hannibal counters smoothly.

“You think that I choose to be like this?” Wills’ eyebrows furrow, his brow darkening while his forehead wrinkles as he looks incredulously at Hannibal, yet still managing to avoid the eyes, “Why the hell would I want this?”

“To an extent, you do choose to be like that. It all depends on the perspective—the subjectivity of how you look at everything is dependent on how you react to it. You do not want it. Of course you don’t. You are afraid of the very thing you are forced to seek, afraid of becoming the very thing you are forced to find.”

Will takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with one hand while holding the plastic frames in the other. And he can only think of how correct Hannibal is, how he is becoming the very thing he is forced to find. 

Looking up, he hisses through his teeth, “I liked killing Hobbs,” and he can see a dying Garrett Jacob Hobbs behind his closed lids, Hobbs struggling to breathe through punctured lungs as he whispers, with a satisfied smirk creeping up his face, “See? See?”

Yes and no. Will does see why, as he manages to look at Hobbs in the eye as his crazed conscience shines through them, illuminating his whole face with the euphoric mask that is burned into Will’s mind. But he feels it, the power of taking away someone’s life, the rush of adrenaline that tears through his veins, burning, searing his innards and cauterizing him, in a way that it hurts but mutes the bleeding, in a way he cannot ever hope to understand or explain.

“And so you finally admit to yourself that you felt powerful, holding the gun in your hands, ending his life as easily as God ends ours,” Hannibal says softly. Will cringes from the statement, his transparent face displaying the inner self-loathing that spills out, coloring in his face, filling in the lines that are deep ravines crossing his face.

“There is no shame, William. You saved the life of an innocent girl, Abigail Hobbs. With his death, you have ensured her survival. And what greater gift can you give to a human than life?”

Will stands up, ignoring the effects on his vision and hearing as his blood pressure drops while he straightens himself.

“Dr. Lecter, I don’t believe that you understand. I got too close. You know what will happen if I get even closer,” Will warns, his hands shakily replacing the glasses on the bridge of his nose, “And that is the very reason that Jack Crawford sent me here to see you for therapy sessions.”

“Jack is a fool who doesn’t see what you see. You should not judge yourself so harshly based on a silly man’s claims—”

“Which is obviously why he had me get psychoanalyzed by you to make sure that I didn’t go crazy and kill anybody after I shot Hobbs! But you handed me a letter including your signature confirming that I didn’t get ‘too close’ without doing a single, damn thing! And I still see Hobbs everywhere: in my dreams, at every crime scene… _everywhere_. Goddammit, Hannibal.”

A sob of torturous frustration rises from the depths of his throat, escaping through his clenched teeth as Hannibal notes the resentment that Will should rightly put on him turns inwards, manifesting in a sense of inadequacy.

“I wasn’t okay, but I still went back with that letter that you gave me that said I was okay to go back to the field. And as I was kneeling down besides that man that had mushrooms and mycelium sprouting from his flesh, growing across his skin and face extensively to the point his features were indistinguishable and unidentifiable, I saw _Hobbs_ in that shallow grave instead,” Will dictates angrily, putting emphasis on “Hobbs” in order to add more urgency though he already knows that Hannibal understands with or without it, “He’s always there when I’m looking for something or someone. I can see those dead, clouded eyes boring into mine even when I try to look away from him.”

Hannibal looks at him, expressionless as ever, and asks, “So what are you going to do about it?”

Will pauses, expecting another analogy or enigma that somehow applies itself to his situation.

“I—I don’t know,” he stutters honestly, pacing back and forth as he contemplates, “To forget, I guess. I—I really just don’t know!”

Hannibal rises smoothly from his chair, joining Will on his feet.

“Come. Let me treat you to a nice, home-cooked meal, William, to get your mind off of what has transpired.” Hannibal stretches out his arm, pointing towards the door out of the office. Will, albeit hesitantly, follows Hannibal’s unsaid order. 

\-----

Will seats himself at the table, with silverware neatly set surrounding an empty space where the porcelain plate containing the meal will sit. He becomes hyperaware of the fact that he has not slept properly for the past week—the night terrors keep him afraid, weak. He cannot simply stand away, staring at his little house with every light blazing through the windows, a sailboat on a steady sea that brings Will a sense of comfort.

Will closes his eyes and attempts to relax his shoulders; he does not plan to fall asleep. And he sits there, at Hannibal’s dining table where he awaits a fanciful and artful meal, where he tries not to sleep because he is more afraid of his subconscious than an infantile child is afraid of the dark.

\-----

Will is still seated, but Abigail Hobbs watches his face intently, staring at his eyes as he tries his best to not look into her own, piercing blue ones that often scream out hurt from underneath the trembling, dark eyelashes.

“Dad,” she says, “Why aren’t you eating?”

He looks down at his plate. Instead of the fine china that Hannibal is particular about, it is a simple ceramic piece that has been fired a tan color with a clear glaze coating it. And in that clear glaze, he can see his own reflection.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ face stares back at him, his dead eyes boring into Will’s own, his body still riddled with bullet holes exactly where Will had left them.

“See?” Will whispers to the plate, and Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ face twists into the satisfied smirk that Will remembers looking up to while clutching his daughter’s bleeding neck,  
feeling her gasp for air through the cut. 

Abigail looks at him, worried, her eyelashes beginning to flutter rapidly, faster than a hummingbird’s wings as it gathers nectar with its long, piercing beak that is only used to draw the liquid that is dire for its survival. She is afraid.

Will stands up, staring at a particular freckle on her pale face. He reaches and grabs her, dragging her into the kitchen that is not Hannibal’s. It’s his—Garret Jacob Hobbs’. 

“Shh. Shh. It’ll all be over soon. I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” he whispers softly into Abigail’s ear as he holds her close, grasping a knife from the wooden knife rack and pressing it against her soft, pale flesh. 

She struggles against his solid grip, stretching her neck.

What a fool, Garrett Jac—Will thinks, it’ll only make it easier for him to slice through that delicate, thin membrane that constricts her throbbing pulse. He can see her tendons tensing and stretching.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, pulling the blade across her trachea.

\-----

“Will?”

He snaps his head up as he sees a Hannibal whose hands are laden with white, porcelain dishes that have golden glaze around the rim. Simple, but elegant. 

He walks over to the table and sets the dishes that hold the delicacies that he can craft so well down.

Hannibal pours a deep, red wine into Will’s glass before attending to his own. Will struggles to not think of how similar the color is to the crimson that spread across Hobbs’ shirt, and he feels bile rising from his roiling stomach.

“Pork rillettes garnished with thyme sprigs spread on pain de campagne with a side of tripoux made from sheep tripe,” Hannibal informs Will as he waits for the guest to begin eating first.

Will sits there, staring at the dish in front of him. Hannibal sets down his knife and fork.

“It still troubles you.”

Will does not make any indication that he has heard a single word that escapes from Hannibal’s thin mouth though he knows it is true.

He affirms the statement in his head, but instead reaches for his glass of wine and downs it, more desperate than a man dying of thirst discovering a clear fountain of water in the desert, and the glass empties more quickly than Will would like it to. Hannibal watches him impassively, but Will feels that he is disappointed.

"Criticize me," Will mutters, "It won't be the first time you have today." He reaches for the crystalline wine decanter, only to have Hannibal to grab his wrist in a swift, fluid motion, preventing him from intoxicating himself more than his conflicting thoughts already have.

"Enough."

Will freezes and finally looks into his eyes, his limb still held captive by Hannibal’s strong grip. He can feel his eyes twitching rapidly, side to side, as he alternates focusing on the two almond-colored eyes, deep and blazing like a whiskey in a clear, cut-crystal Swarovski glass. 

Will would become an alcoholic if there was an endless supply of that whiskey to be his choice method of slowly killing himself. He wants to feel that whiskey sliding down his throat, scalding but cleansing. 

They stare at each other, expressionless but not waiting.

And here Will is, circling in an empty universe with the single star that is his sanity floating away from him as he is at the aphelion of his orbit, with Hannibal grasping at his fraying conscience, holding him in place. 

Still staring into Hannibal’s eyes, Will decides that instead of Swarovski, the whiskey would be too precious for that. No, no. He would pour it and savor the whiskey, Hannibal’s whiskey, in an old Baccarat bucket glass that would not tamper the flavor. 

Hannibal suddenly lets go of him, and his arm drops, Will’s mind not registering the loss of pressure or support. He knocks over his empty wine glass, and the thin glass shatters upon contact with the solid ebony table.

“Shit,” Will mumbles, grabbing his napkin and dabbing at the shards of crystal that bleed droplets of the wine. Hannibal stands up, excusing himself to grab a small dustpan and brush. 

Will attempts to pick up one of the larger fragments, only to have his shaking hands slip as he picks it up, and the glass cuts a shallow, red line across the pad of his index finger. Gingerly stepping to his feet, Will walks out of the dining room—he needs to find Hannibal and ask for some disinfectant and a bandage to cover his bleeding skin.

“Leaving so soon?” Hannibal’s voice asks from behind him.

“No,” Will turns to see Hannibal holding a wooden brush and dustpan. Of course he uses wooden ones, Will thinks bitterly, he’s so particular about quality.

“Let me see your hand.” 

Will debates whether or not to do so. He does not enjoy trusting people. People have left him alone, so he tends to his fishing rods, to his whiskey, to his dogs that he knows are laying around the front door and eagerly awaiting the sound of his footsteps clambering up the front porch steps. But he wants to drink whiskey the color Hannibal’s eyes instead of his own drink. 

“Why are you afraid?” Hannibal asks him, and Will struggles to look up at Hannibal’s face that begins to show an ounce of curiosity rather than his constant blank face that shows a hint of a smile. 

He’s your therapist, Will tells himself. Will knows that he’s already opened up, but emotional openness never gets any easier with physical contact.

“N-nothing,” Will stutters, and lifts his arm up, palm facing upwards and Hannibal takes his hand delicately. Will shivers at the foreign touch, and he can feel his body locking up with Hannibal’s fingers lightly pressing themselves on his wrist and hand. 

“It is not deep. Let me get my kit.”

Hannibal lets go of Will’s hand, but this time, Will holds it up rather than letting it fall. Hannibal looks at Will’s bleeding finger, and for a second, Will can almost see a flash of emotion pass through his face—it seemed that Hannibal hungered to taste his blood, and there was a certain desire that Will could not pinpoint. 

“Don’t leave,” Hannibal instructs him, and he leaves the room.

Will is frozen, standing there in the doorway from the kitchen to the dining room, his hand held out with the blood still covering his thin fingers, seeping into the lines and cracks in his palms, and the gesture in which Will stretches out his arm is almost making it seem that he is holding out an offering to some deity. 

Will doesn’t know what he is worshipping. Sometimes, he feels like he’s sold his soul to the devil, stuck in the purgatory that is a conscience composed of pure empathy, feeling and feeding off the emotions of everyone else. 

As he stands there waiting for Hannibal to return, he wonders why he ever agreed to become Jack’s dog—Will doesn’t even have enough self-worth to compare himself to a falcon that still has chances for excursions, fleeing for a brief period from his master before being called back. But as a dog, he has no choice but to keep obeying, and Will hates himself for that, hates himself for being what he is. 

Every time he tries to turn away and escape from himself, he is always drawn back to this hell, working with the FBI, empathizing with what he is so afraid of. He can feel himself changing, taking little bits of what he sees and holding it within his crumbling conscience. He can feel Garrett Jacob Hobbs nesting in his head, curling around the base of his hypothalamus and becoming a more integrated aspect of his psyche. 

Hannibal returns with a first-aid kit. He sets it down on the dark granite counters of his kitchen and motions for Will to move closer. And Will, the trained little dog, comes as he is called.

“Let me see your hand.” Will obeys and holds it out, and his eyes carefully watch Hannibal’s hands as they delicately encompass his own. 

“It did not sever anything major. I shall disinfect it and bandage it,” Hannibal thinks aloud to himself.

Will glances up to see Hannibal staring intently at him, making unintentional eye contact. He cannot pull himself away from the alluring stare, and he can see that aura again, that light that seems to come from within Hannibal’s being as it manifests in a translucent halo of white light that burns, shining through his skin. It is almost intoxicating as the man himself. 

Will feels like he has managed to swallow down a sip of that precious, fiery whiskey, igniting his throat and insides as it slides down his esophagus and trails through his digestive track, marking him from the inside, marking him as Hannibal’s.


	2. Perihelion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. POSTED & BETA'D  
> Thank you readers, and thank you Ye'ela (andrewscoot on Tumblr), for beta-ing uwu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perihelion - (n.) the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is closest to the sun.

His cell is cold. He’s been locked up for the past few months, yet the psychiatric ward is still so foreign to him. The technicians and nurses sometimes leave crayons and sheets of paper for him to draw on, but at the end of the day, they are picked up and shelved, unused and untouched.

  
There are some days when Will is led out for therapy, whether he’s seeing a psychiatrist or visiting the chair with leather straps to hold him down as he is shocked over and over again, screaming while his body writhes. The only time the mask comes off is in the cage or in the chair. They don’t let him take the medication by hand. It’s all done while he is strapped down, forearms bared with his jumpsuit’s sleeve rolled up past his elbows so the nurses can inject the medication directly. There are times when the psychiatrists decide he is too unstable and distressed, and they opt for tranquilizers to calm him down. But it is in this drugged haze that he is at his worst: his handicapped mind only goes back to when everything was good, when everyone believed him, when he was a free man.

  
The only time Dr. Hannibal Lecter visits is when Will is drugged up on anti-anxiety medications whose side effects happen to include drowsiness and impaired motor function. Will knows that Hannibal can smell his fear, that he can feel his pulse fighting against the heaviness of the medication. Despite this pall of agitation dampened by the drugs’ effects, he can look Hannibal in the eye, yet memories come unbidden, and his face flushes when he remembers why he can look at people, not just Hannibal, in the eye.

  
\-----  
The first time Hannibal visits after his imprisonment, Will is unpleasantly unsurprised. Aside from Jack and the other agents working on his case, no one else has visited him, not even Alana. Later, his fears that she has abandoned him are assuaged, her visit occurring hours after Hannibal’s.

  
It has been only a few days of sitting in his cage where he stares listlessly at his wringing hands. He doesn’t know if he’s afraid for himself, but he is sure that he’s afraid for the people involved in his case—they are the few that he can call something other than colleagues. A ghost of a whisper passes through his mind: I’m your friend, Will. He can’t tell if it’s Alana’s voice or Hannibal’s.

  
“Hello, Will.”

  
He starts at the voice, the accent as familiar as always. Lifting his head, not pausing to steel himself, Will looks into Hannibal’s calculating stare.

  
Just like they had practiced.

  
\-----

  
_“Let me see your hand.” Will obeys and holds it out, and his eyes carefully watch Hannibal’s hands as they delicately encompass his own._

  
_“It did not sever anything major. I shall disinfect it and bandage it,” Hannibal thinks aloud to himself._

  
_Will glances up to see Hannibal staring intently at him, making unintentional eye contact. He cannot pull himself away from the alluring stare, and he can see that aura again, that light that seems to come from within Hannibal’s being as it manifests in a translucent halo of white light that burns, shining through his skin. It is almost intoxicating as the man himself._

  
_Will feels like he has managed to swallow down a sip of that precious, fiery whiskey, igniting his throat and insides as it slides down his esophagus and trails through his digestive track, marking him from the inside, marking him as Hannibal’s._

  
“May I?”

  
Hannibal glances down at Will’s bleeding hand, and he slowly raises it to his lips, and Will can feel his breath on the over-sensitive skin. His mind is stuck, teetering over the edge of yes before Hannibal presses his mouth to the wound, and his tongue is lapping gently at the welling blood, his lips puckering and sucking.

  
When Hannibal looks up, Will’s mouth is slack. His eyes are wide. Hannibal’s mouth twitches, and Will faintly wonders if that is a hint of a smile Hannibal is suppressing. His gaze falls down to his hand, a layer of drying saliva that slowly loses its glistening quality as he stares. He doesn’t notice Hannibal moving until his hands reclaim Will’s injured one, and there is a slight sting as an alcohol wipe passes over the opened skin before an adhesive bandage covers it.

  
“I can help you,” Hannibal says conversationally, busying himself with the first aid kit and cleaning up the broken glass.

  
“With… with what?” Will manages, and he feels that, despite the steadiness of his tone, it does little to hide his trepidation.

  
Hannibal only allows the corners of his mouth to turn up, before responding. “You know.” Only then does Will realize he hasn’t been looking at Hannibal in the eye. He tries to raise his eyes, only to find himself incapable of looking any higher than Hannibal’s cheekbones.

  
Hannibal shifts, and Will allows himself an almost inaudible gasp at Hannibal’s chuckle (and it is only later, after he is arrested, when he realizes that he solidified Hannibal’s reasons to do what came next). Hannibal reaches down, grasping Will’s hand once again, and he guides him out of the dining room, uncharacteristically leaving the first aid kit and grouped shattered remains on the table, and he guides him through the kitchen to stairs that Will has only seen, never venturing far enough into Hannibal’s house to have ever used them.

  
His thoughts blindfold him, wrapping around his mind, and a soft click the door makes while closing brings him back to his senses, the scales falling from his eyes. He is standing in a room, presumably Hannibal’s, and it does not differ from the rest of his elegant, almost surgically clean house. It’s a large room, the furnishing elegant and minimalist while still retaining a classical quality. A king-sized bed covered in sheets (with no wrinkles, Will notes) is the focal point, a large mirror sitting atop a dresser at the opposite wall. Two night-stands sit on either side of the bed; two bookshelves face each other at the adjoining walls, and two doors stand on either side of the dresser across from the night-stands. The matching, dark-wood furniture (which Hannibal later tells him is crafted from black walnut) creates a perfect symmetry, only broken by a window with drawn curtains the same color of Hannibal’s burgundy sheets.

  
Will’s throat and mouth suddenly become unbearably dry, and he tries to swallow. He refuses to look at the tall, European man standing an unknown distance behind him. Breathe, he thinks, and a shaky breath is pulled into his lungs and let out just as unsteadily. He forces himself not to jump when a hand, gentle yet unyielding, grasps his shoulder and turns him around. He looks pointedly at Hannibal’s chest, focusing on the threads of the other man’s shirt and the paisley pattern of his tie.

  
The same hand that held his shoulder now guides his chin upwards to look at the only person that he has looked in the eye at for years, and his eyelids reflexively flutter and shut, and his nose twitches, willing his glasses to fall just enough so he can hide behind the top of his frames.

  
“Look at me.” Will can feel his face trembling, and his tongue darts out and nervously wets his lips. “Will, look at me,” Hannibal commands, emphasizing those monosyllabic three words. And Will gives in, his lids retracting, allowing grayish blue-green eyes to look up at Hannibal’s peering, nearly hazel eyes that lack the hint of green to pass as such.

  
“Good.” The unsaid and implied “boy” causes Will to straighten up, his eyes widening as Hannibal’s mouth widens into a slightly predatory smile, and all he can think of is the smell of Hannibal’s cologne and the smell of his clothing and the smell of cleanliness that Will has, in the past months, begun to associate with Hannibal. His lips separate, and he unconsciously places both hands against Hannibal’s chest. He doesn’t push the man away.

  
“Wha-what are you doing?” Confusion, fear, distress, and the beginnings of arousal run through Will’s mind, where a sense of vulnerability blossoms and takes hold of his entire being—had his hands not been steadied by Hannibal’s chest, they would be shaking incessantly.

  
Hannibal’s smile remains the same, but his eyes show the beginnings of mirth and amusement. “I am helping you,” he says simply, and he slowly leans forward, angling his head so the light does not catch his eyes, darkening them.

  
Will doesn’t prepare himself—he finds himself incapable. He impulsively tilts his head and closes his eyes, and Hannibal’s lips reach their target. It’s gentle, and Will finds his body relaxing into the kiss, the chaste nature comforting. But underneath his hands, he can feel Hannibal’s resolve, a self-control that Will equates to something stronger than steel, almost titanium, yet he places much greater value to Hannibal’s stability, deciding it to be platinum.

  
Giving in, Will parts his lips against Hannibal’s, his breath ghosting against the other’s mouth, and Hannibal takes up on Will’s offer, affirming it with kisses that begin to shed Hannibal’s control. As Hannibal’s tongue darts out, Will’s hands grab the lapels of Hannibal’s suit. If Hannibal experiences any discomfort at Will wrinkling his suit, he doesn’t show it, only encompassing Will within his arms as he slowly guides Will backwards.

  
The bed hits the back of his knees, and unexpectedly, Will falls back, a slight yelp escaping his throat. He blushes, his own surprise bringing him back to the reality of his current actions, and he scrunches his eyebrows and rubs at his stubble in embarrassment.

  
“You shouldn’t be looking away.”

  
A gasp follows Hannibal’s words when Will realizes that Hannibal has shed his suit jacket unceremoniously and loosened his tie. The surprise remains as Hannibal reaches out and coaxes Will’s unresponsive arms out of his blazer, and it joins the suit jacket on the ground where they contradict each other, one made of a cheap polyester and cotton blend and the other made of silk.

  
Hannibal leans down and recaptures Will’s lips, his deft hands making short work of the buttons hiding away Will’s skin, and this time, Will helps Hannibal remove his clothing before reaching out and blindly trying to unbutton Hannibal’s shirt. Hannibal’s hands catch Will’s, and Hannibal pulls away, the beginnings of a smirk adorning his face. He then takes the tie and uses it to bind Will’s hands together, preventing him from undressing Hannibal any further. He pushes the smaller man down onto the bed, and he places Will’s hands above him before straddling him as he begins to nip and suck at the exposed flesh. Hannibal’s mouth leaves bruises as he gradually goes lower, leaving behind an abused neck and collarbones, and Will arches his back at the scrape of teeth on his chest, groaning, his eyes tightly shut.

  
As Hannibal goes to work on Will’s chest, Will keens, holding back pleads for Hannibal to just help him and be done with it until Hannibal has a nipple in his mouth, where he expertly toys with it using his tongue and his teeth—Oh God, his teeth, Will manages to coherently think. Hannibal’s free hand travels down, worrying the other nipple with his dexterous fingers, and Will wriggles in pleasure at the sensations flooding his body that go straight to his groin.

  
“Please,” he gasps, “Please, Hannibal.”

  
Pulling back, Hannibal deftly takes the zipper of Will’s jeans and pulls it down, quickly unbuttons it, and pulls them off, taking the socks as well. He palms Will’s growing erection, and he watches Will’s reaction, a self-satisfied expression arising from Will’s moaning. Finally, he releases his grip on Will’s hands and removes his shirt, adding it to the growing pile of discarded clothing next to the bed.

  
Then Hannibal’s mouth is upon Will’s again, and the self-restraint has decreased a pleasingly arousing amount, and they exchange sloppy kisses, teeth colliding just like their tongues. A quiet groan reverberates through Hannibal’s chest and throat, and Will can feel the vibrations through Hannibal’s mouth.

  
Will breaks away, looking up at Hannibal, looking up into his eyes.

  
“Please,” he says again, “Please help me.”

  
Hannibal barely pauses, before saying, “Watch me.”

  
He trails kisses down Will’s body, starting from his jawline, and occasionally sucking hard enough to leave bruises scattered haphazardly across skin, before stopping right above the waistband of Will’s boxers. Will tries to thrust his hips upwards, but Hannibal places a hand on his hip, pressing down hard enough to bruise, to keep him from moving.

  
“Look at me,” Hannibal orders, and Will looks at him as he presses his mouth against Will’s throbbing erection. It takes all of his self-control, looking at Hannibal mouthing his cock through the thin fabric instead of laying his head back and closing his eyes as a cry erupts from his vocal chords. Tantalizingly, Hannibal’s hand creeps up from Will’s thigh, landing right above the elastic of the boxers before sliding them down, exposing a fully erect Will.

  
“Look at you, so wanting and needing,” Hannibal murmurs, his fingers rolling over the head of Will’s penis and pulling the foreskin upwards, “So vulnerable and—”

  
“Please!” Will cries out pleadingly, trying to thrust upwards against the hand steadily pressing down on his hip, upwards into the hand that toys with his cock but barely enough for any relief.

  
“—desperate that you’re begging for me to do something, for me to help you,” Hannibal continues. He settles himself between Will’s spread thighs. “Make sure you’re paying close attention,” Hannibal says, and then he licks upwards, starting right above Will’s ball sack nestled in dark curls, and ending at the slit where precome is already oozing out. Above Will’s head, his bound hands grasp at the sheets, trying to stabilize his shaking body as Hannibal starts sucking him. His tongue massages the glans, before he starts taking in more of Will’s cock. Instinctually, Will tries to buck up again, but whines as Hannibal’s hand stops him once again. Hannibal lets Will’s penis to fall from his mouth, and he bites Will’s inner thigh as punishment. His hand lazily begins move up and down Will’s shaft, the other traveling down to unbutton his own trousers, leaving Hannibal in nothing but boxer-briefs.

  
“Keep your eyes on me,” Hannibal calls out, gently with an undertone of dominance, and Will struggles to raise his head to look at Hannibal, and his abdomen visibly strains as he obeys.

  
Hannibal then stands up, leaving Will unsatisfied on his bed, and pulls off his pants, exposing his own erection. After giving himself a few, lazy pulls, Hannibal goes to the nearest nightstand and pulls out lubricant. Will stops making piteous moans as he realizes what Hannibal holds in his hands, and he pulls his eyes away from Hannibal’s when Hannibal looks at him.

  
“We won’t need a condom,” Hannibal says, turning back to Will, whose erection starts flagging, “I know you’re clean, and I’m clean. It’ll be much more effective help. Now, you must look or this will all be for nothing.”

  
Trepidation builds within Will’s chest as he watches Hannibal kneel between his legs. Hannibal pops open the cap and squirts the clear fluid onto his fingers, coating them, and Will finds the squelch quite unpleasant.

  
“Eyes on me.”

  
Will bites his lower lip, worrying it with his teeth as he feels one of Hannibal’s fingers circling his perineum, circling his sphincter before lightly pushing into his tight hole. Will groans at the foreign feeling, his body tightening and trying to reject Hannibal’s finger, and his eyelids slide down.

  
A sudden warm, wet heat surrounding his cock startles him, and his eyes fly open to look down at Hannibal.

  
“I need you to relax, or you will hurt yourself. And watch me,” Hannibal commands, Will’s cock trailing precome on Hannibal’s bottom lip, “Deep breaths for me now.” And Will, the obedient little lamb, obeys, inhaling and exhaling, his eyes fixed on Hannibal’s face as Hannibal starts sucking him again. He groans at the sensation of Hannibal’s tongue licking the underside of his penis while sucking him deep, taking him to the base, and he groans at the sensation of Hannibal’s finger pushing into him.

  
“Relax,” Hannibal whispers, “Look at you. You’re doing so well for me.”

  
Will realizes that Hannibal’s knuckle presses against his entrance, and Hannibal slowly pulls his finger out, starting a slow rhythm that has Will thrusting his hips upwards, cock bouncing up and down against his belly. Suddenly, an influx of pleasure tears a cry from his throat, and Hannibal crooks his finger, hitting Will’s prostate again and again.

  
Will whines at the loss of Hannibal’s fingers, and he hears a familiar squelch before he feels another finger lined up against his arse. His line of sight is blocked by the view of his own erect cock—at which he flushes—and Hannibal’s head bent over in observation. It’s harder to take in these two fingers, and Will hisses at the stretch. To compensate for the discomfort, Hannibal takes Will’s penis in his mouth again, and he looks up into Will’s eyes, brown ones burning into Will’s blue ones, and he sucks as he starts to push the two fingers in.

  
The stretch burns, and Will’s eyes water in reaction as Hannibal goes deeper and deeper, his fingers scissoring and loosening the tight muscle. The discomfort and pain clash with the pleasure coming from his groin, and he groans, his body and mind confused and incapable of differentiating the two. It’s as if they’re going back to the start, Hannibal sucking him deep into his throat while his fingers slip in and out, trying to find Will’s prostate. Just as the pain melds with pleasure, Will jolts as the fingers brush over the sensitive bundle of nerves, nearly gagging Hannibal in the process, and with an obscene pop!, Hannibal lifts his head and watches Will watching him.

  
Finally, after repeating the process once more with three fingers, Hannibal slicks himself up. Will looks up and flushes, suddenly becoming extremely aware of how broken and debauched he must look to the other man.

  
“Look me in the eye, William,” Hannibal commands, and Will obeys. Of course he obeys. He’s trained to do so, trained to be a dog.

  
Hannibal remains composed as he slides into Will, slowly but consistently, and he doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated within Will’s tight heat. Will holds back a groan, both of pain and pleasure, and he forces his eyes to stay open and fixed on Hannibal. Hannibal’s hand holds his arms above his head, and he can’t do anything as Hannibal begins thrusting, angling upwards so he can hit Will’s prostate every time, and Will keens and begs for Hannibal to touch him because he can’t touch himself.

  
Will’s eyes start rolling up into his head from the sensory overload and Hannibal lightly slaps him to bring him back.

  
“I guess we’ll do it the other way, then,” Hannibal says quietly, and suddenly Will’s hands are free, but he’s pushed down on all fours facing the mirror, and he watches Hannibal move behind him and then Hannibal starts thrusting into him from behind.  
His arms shake at having to support his body weight and part of Hannibal’s, and when his head sags forward in submission, in exhaustion, in pleasure, Hannibal grabs his chin and forces it up, making him look himself in the eye as he is taken from behind.

  
“Look at yourself,” Hannibal growls into his ear, “Look at your eyes and see. Do it, and I’ll reward you for being good.”

  
Will groans as he sees a flushed and debauched man looking straight back at him, and he begs, “Dr. Lecter, please! Please, touch me!”

  
Hannibal complies, and Will blushes at thinking that he’s being good, but he can only keen and thrust his hips back as Hannibal pounds into him, and the slapping sound of flesh hitting flesh somehow pleases him. Hannibal bites his shoulder and allows Will’s head to sag forward as he comes.

  
Will trembles, on the verge of collapsing, but Hannibal finishes soon after and pulls out, and Will drops down and rolls onto his back. Hannibal helps him sit up.

  
“Did it help?” Hannibal asks.

  
Will manages to look him in the eye without shaking. “Yes,” he responds, not breaking eye contact.  
\-----  
It's been a long time, but finally, Will is set free. He's spent months and months waiting for the F.B.I. to realize that the Chesapeake Ripper wasn't him after all. He doesn't know what to do with himself. How can he re-assimilate into society after all this emotional and psychological torture and stress?

  
He comes home to his house in Wolf Trap, Virginia, and it feels so empty without his dogs. Alana is supposed to bring them around tomorrow, and he supposes that he might as well just wait and figure out how to take care of himself before taking on the responsibility of other living things. He sits down, a finger of whiskey in hand, and he just stares at the empty fireplace, trying to ignore all the empty space around him that the dogs used to occupy. Now, he couldn't pretend that he wasn't lonely, because he really was alone in his house.

  
And he sits there, not realizing he was losing time, that things were changing around him until he looks up and sees a car dashboard and there are street lights around him that don't exist in rural Wolf Trap, Virginia. He's parked outside of Hannibal's house, no longer a crime scene that the F.B.I. is investigating. Hannibal's been on the run for a total of thirty-seven days, at least, that's what Crawford would tell him every time he visited. Will's honestly surprised that he got out when he did, since the justice system has a penchant for dragging things out.

  
For a second, it's almost like Will forgets how to walk, and he falls into the snow face first, cursing, and he gets a mouthful of it. He continues, walking with mechanical movements. He feels the gun in his holster covered by his large coat. Jack had been hesitant in giving it to him, but the F.B.I. was stretched to its limits, and they couldn't spare anyone to guard Will, so he got the gun instead.

  
Will doesn't think anything's wrong, not when he pushes the unlocked front door open into the warm house, and it's only when he's standing in Lecter's office, looking at some books on the cannibal's desk when he realizes it all: the door's unlocked and the house is warm, and these books have no dust on them. He whips around, pulling his gun and there's something pushing into his abdomen and he can't help but let out a scream as he looks down and he realizes he's being disemboweled. And he looks up and sees Hannibal looking at him with something akin to pity and he can barely understand what's going on as Hannibal shushes him and lowers him to the ground.

  
"Ah, good, you remember my lessons," Hannibal says quite intimately, noticing Will looking straight at him, albeit a bit disjointed and unfocused, and Hannibal is saying more things but Will can barely make out any words and then he hears, "I think I'll eat your heart."

  
Somehow, he manages to get a grip on his gun and fires blindly at Hannibal, and with the sound of a body hitting the floor a few feet away, a feeling of sickened satisfaction passes through him. He pulls out his blood-covered cellphone with blood-covered hands and manages to call Jack. He makes note that, if he survives this, he'll thank Jack for forcibly putting his number on speed dial.

  
Jack picks up after the first ring and Will can barely hear the frantic "hello?"s and he forces words out through his lips, barely understanding what he's saying other than "Hannibal" and "bleeding" and "maybe" and the phone slips out of his hands and he can't find himself caring because he is so, so tired and he lets his neck relax, his head dropping to the ground in exhaustion. Will feels cold, and he wonders if this is what it's like to be so far away from the sun, like maybe Pluto, and he ends up equating himself with Pluto because he's so cold and far away from the sun, and people don't look at him like he's really a human anymore, and maybe that's how the other planets would look at Pluto if they could think. His abdomen hurts and he knows he's going into shock by the way that he's shaking, but he still finds himself in disbelief, as he lays there in fetal position, with the fact that he can see his intestines starting to spill out a bit. He knows that there isn't much time left before the F.B.I. will get here but there also isn't that much time before he loses too much blood, but he is so drained and he allows himself to drift as he waits for Jack, just how he imagines his dogs are waiting for him, and in his last moments of consciousness, he finds it funny to think that maybe he is Jack's little show dog after all.


End file.
